


Los Angelitos del Sol

by BrennaLaRosa



Series: Empire Rising [2]
Category: Empire of the Sun
Genre: Blood and Torture, Gen, Implied Bloodshed, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Knives, Occult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6751588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrennaLaRosa/pseuds/BrennaLaRosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No hero lives in a vacuum...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Los Angelitos del Sol

**Author's Note:**

> The following takes place during Chapter 2 of The Dreamtime. Some of the words in this story are Spanish and some are slang. “Papì”, for example, is a common nickname in some parts of Latin America for an older brother.

_Boca del Cuervo, Mexico, 30 km outside of Mexico City, 2014, 5:34 AM_

 

He had to run between shadows, the bundle in his arms like a sack of lead and the barest hints of dawn warring with the headlights and streetlights. Boca de Cuervo was never very active before daybreak. Someone would comment if he was seen and there would be trouble he couldn't afford.

 

Miguel was 19 and still not very tall or brawny. Everything about him was stringy, lean and half-starved. Not that he TRIED to be a bundle of joints and skin. He ate three good meals a day. He had to. His mother wouldn't eat alone and Gabriela needed to see that things were normal. So he and Gaby cooked and they all ate. Then, he'd put Gaby to bed and pray with Mamà, before studying and listening to the one band that still felt real. That was why he was out now, running from alleyway to front stoop, carrying an old child's backpack.

 

The text message had come from his girlfriend Xiomara, who was a raging insomniac. It was a website link, leading to a newspaper from Melbourne, Australia. His English was rusty, but he could pick up the basics. “Luke Steele... collapsed... life support... Doctors baffled.” Miguel had nearly screamed. Word for word, it was almost exactly the same as the local paper's report of his father's sudden illness. The doctors had never found out why he died. He'd simply dropped like a stone on the floor of the lab and lost all will to fight his own death. His mother was going to follow soon enough.

 

Not Luke. _Madre de Dios_ , Mother of God, not Luke.

 

Miguel slung the backpack onto his shoulders as best he could to scramble over the chainlink fence and the concrete wall. This was _El Palacio de las Brujas Rojas_ , the Palace of the Red Witches. The last denizens had died when Miguel was small, but the palace remained. Some swore they could still see lights and hear music coming from within on Friday nights. But, he hadn't come to spy on the ghosts of tall men and pretty ladies in evening clothes. He'd come for the Chapel.

 

The door had never been locked. The family that tended it wanted it to be free to all. It wasn't as though it was worth stealing from, a small, squat adobe building with narrow, dusty windows and a door that screamed every time it moved. But, Miguel knew its treasures well. Inside, five statues sat in small marble grottos, waiting to be honored. Pride of place went to the Son of God Himself, on his left his father Jose clutched a hammer and, strangely, a toy, perhaps for Jesus to play with as a little boy. On his left, the Virgin of Guadalupe stood atop her black crescent, holding the Mexican flag like banner of peace. Jesus Malverde stood, surrounded by signs that the less savory folk of Boca de Cuervo gave him his due and petitioned for aid. But, the most surreal and ghastly face of the five was who Miguel needed.

 

The rising sun touched her ivory face and the wreath of marigolds and roses on her bare skull. Somehow, whoever had sculpted her had made her grinning jaws and empty eyes seem gentle and loving. Cheap beaded necklaces had been threaded through her ribs and draped over her bony hands. Someone else had been here, as a candle burned at her feet. Miguel set his bag down and began to spread out his tools. Candles. Incense matches. White roses stolen from the garden next door. A kitchen knife. Pan dulce from the night before. A light-up cup from a street fair. A bottle of _cerveza_. All laid out on a brilliant golden yellow shawl patterned with skulls and stars.

 

“Holy Death,” He whispered, “My Lady, Mistress of Darkness and Coldness, I come before you tonight and implore your total protection over the E—Luke Steele.”

 

He could recall that day, five years ago, when the news had come about his father. He and Xiomara were hanging out at her place, sharing cigarettes and studying, anything to distract him from the sudden illness, when Xiomara stood up and went to the computer.

 

“You have to hear these guys!” she said, “I have a cousin working in Australia who sent me this album! You'll love them! They're amazing! Empire of the Sun, just listen!”

 

She was right. Miguel had loved them. He wanted to see more and was stunned at the wild costumes and brilliant displays, but more so at how incredible the music was. He'd embraced the lyrics wholeheartedly, using them to practice his English, translating a few to sing to his sister in Spanish. Gaby seemed to like it, too, demanding a rendition every night. They had been one of his few comforts when Miguel's father died. Any other musician at death's door, and he would have been stunned, saddened, even. Something about this was different, painful. Miguel could feel a strange dread falling over him. Every moment Luke hovered on the edge between life and death was a moment that brought something sinister closer.

 

“My Queen, I ask you to protect him and take care of him. He's a father, My Lady, a husband, a friend, a Monarch.”

 

No! That was wrong. That was a story! A clever bit of marketing to tie together the music and the spectacle. Nothing more. There was no Emperor of the Sun, no Prophet, no Shadow King. It was all fantasy and nonce.

 

Then why did it feel so natural to call him the Emperor? Why did it look so right for him to wear those gleaming metal helmets and glittering coats and see Nick at his side in furs and leathers, both so primal and stately?

 

He lit the candles, two white, one black in between, as though the light was holding back the darkness. He gazed on them, still praying, as he hugged his knees to his chest.

 

“ _Why are you digging a pit?”_  


“ _It's for you.”_  


How was Nick taking this? Mrs. Steele? Their little girl? Was he the only one who felt more than sorrow, but fear? He poured out a measure of _cerveza_ and set the cup and the bread at the skeleton's feet. With the knife in hand, he held his other palm over the cup, ready to cut.

 

  
_**No**_ , said a voice, or rather, a feeling. Something Miguel couldn't see stopped him, holding his thin wrist. _**That is for the Shadow King. The Sun wants no bloodshed.**_  


__

He dropped the knife, trying to turn, but only able to look up at the skull that tilted down to gaze at him. In his mind, Luke lay at the bottom of the ravine. But, this time, he was alone, without Nick. He was still breathing, waiting, letting the sun warm him like a lizard on a stone. He wasn't dead, not yet. Just... Recovering.

 

“Please, Luke,” Miguel begged, “get up. We're lost without you. Your people, they need you.”

 

“Miguel? Papì?”

 

Now he could turn. Gaby stood in the open door. A light warm breeze stirred the hem of her red sundress and the ends of her red-gold braids, so different from his own stick straight black hair. The Hidalgo was stronger in her than the Azteca, softening the beaky nose and stark brow. For a moment, he wondered if Las Brujas Rojas had sent her, their ghosts bidding a small girl of eight to fetch her mad brother out of their chapel and make him stop making messes.

 

“Mamà is looking for you. She needs you to take her to the doctor.”

 

“Coming,” said Miguel, hiding his frustration by scooping the tools back into the bag. The candles he left to burn out in the stony room, unafraid of fires. Taking Gaby's chubby hand in his, he saw her look up gravely.

 

“The Sun always rises, right, Papì?” she asked.

 

He would have thought such simple science was obvious to a girl Gaby's age.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Then, so will he. Don't be scared. He's here now and everything will be okay.”

 

Gaby slipped free of his grasp and scrambled over the fence. Miguel could only stare after her.

How had she known?

 

 


End file.
